


Ice Grows

by ThisAintBC



Series: Star-Spangled Heart [3]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Rare Pairings, Road Trips, The Softest Of Bros, Vanilla, no actual hockey depicted, we’re back to chronological storytelling with this one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2020-01-15 06:24:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18493210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisAintBC/pseuds/ThisAintBC
Summary: His plans to let Kent sweep him off of his feet after the game rapidly evaporated when Smithbauer crashed into him and didn’t stop, sweeping him off his feet in a much less metaphorical way. Most days it kind of feels like he still hasn’t managed to stand back up.The “circle all that apply” redux; or, No/Nay/Never from Holster’s perspective.





	Ice Grows

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flannelgiraffe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flannelgiraffe/gifts), [thesentimentalist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesentimentalist/gifts).



> Thanks to [someplanetelse](http://someplanetelse.tumblr.com/) and [sewingfrommagic](http://sewingfrommagic.tumblr.com/) for beta reading!

Patience, he quickly learns, is the key to any relationship with Parse.

Adam walked in to his first practice with a hockey crush a mile wide, and walked back out with a crush-crush. He was all set to bury those feelings forever—maybe a little harmless flirting, here and there, but letting it go—when Kent took it upon himself to kiss him. And manhandle him into the lockers, which was hotter than any self-respecting hockey bro should be expected to take. But after a minute Kent flinched back, almost stumbling over the bench, and muttered excuses like he hadn’t just had his tongue down Adam’s throat. Even as he told him it was all cool he knew—he was in serious trouble.

Their second kiss, a full season of hockey later, was a lot less fiery. Adam was sort of grateful—he’s not sure if he could be in a relationship where the only options are full throttle or letting the engine idle. It tasted like nachos and ice cream and Adam refused to let go of Parse’s hand until the movie was over.

It’s not perfect. Kent is apparently only able to commit to big life decisions from the front seat of Swoops’ van, and Adam hates upsetting him so much that he finds himself choosing to not confront Kent about things in the hopes they’ll just go away. Kent’s apartment is always a mess and Adam might be mildly allergic to cats. Adam’s tendency to belt showtunes when drunk obviously gets on Kent’s nerves if he’s not in just the right mood for it. They have three knock-down drag-out fights about Aqua and Bryan Adams before figuring out that even when Adam spends the night they should probably take separate vehicles, especially if they’re leaving before the coffee really kicks in.

It quickly became apparent that the Parse the team saw and the Kent that liked to climb Adam like a tree every chance he got weren’t quite the same. Parse wasn’t exactly closeted, but the idea of not being able to control a media narrative was obviously not something he felt very chill about. He was better with the media than he thought—charming, just the right degree of cynical and guarded to come across as snarky and mysterious—but there was no denying that he wasn’t especially out to make friends with the press and it showed. Adam would be lying if he said he didn’t find Parse’s need for control mostly charming but at times just a little bit annoying. He finds himself picking at Kent just so he can bask in the imperfection, in Kent feeling comfortable enough to drop his walls a little.

Kent keeps him on his toes. He always has; Adam never quite knows which way he’s going to leap.

The only thing surprising about the way he refuses to make eye contact is that it isn’t surprising at all.

Adam wriggles a little in the hospital bed, uncomfortable, and tries not to make it seem too much like he’s kicking Kent out when he suggests that he go get some sleep. He doesn’t think he succeeds.

Kent shows up to help him home when they release him and every couple days after, looming awkwardly in the door to Adam’s bedroom, staring at the way Adam’s glasses don’t quite balance on his broken nose. Physical therapy is kicking his ass so he’s usually on the verge of passing out when Kent shows up, but making out is its own kind of drug.

And then he stops showing up at all. Adam’s banned from screens of any kind, but the protesters marching in the streets were hard to miss. The next time he sees Kent, he’s sporting a black eye and a bandaged wrist, and this time Adam’s the one who can’t quite bring himself to look him in the eye.

  


Adam’s concussion is old news, and his leg is basically healed, which is probably why PR decides it’s time to throw him back in the ring. They give him a script that he doesn’t plan to follow and tell him not to mix alcohol with pain meds and that the charity gala they’d signed him up for at the start of the season is still on and is still not optional.

He suspects that they’re scared if they send Kent, someone will wind up getting punched. Adam’s emotions and sexuality live right out in the open on his face, which makes it a little harder for reporters to get under his skin—they know a lot earlier when they’re heading toward disaster and, at almost six and a half feet, usually take that a little more seriously than they do with smaller players. Kent’s never had a reputation for fighting—neither has Adam, come to that, but he does a lot more on-ice checking than the Aces’ forwards and he knows the reporters have seen some of the bruises—and his media face approaches perfection when he’s closest to losing his cool. If Kent was going to punch out a reporter, Murphy and his rapidly deteriorating temper say it would be now, when the Aces least need even more bad press around their captain.

So PR sends Adam, and conveniently forgets to tell Parse, and it’s a smart decision on their end. Adam can appreciate that even now, as the conversation slowly runs into PR’s inflexibility like the Titanic finding itself on top of an iceberg.

“I—I’d love to get dinner tonight, but I don’t think I can make it?” It comes out as a question.

“What do you mean, you can’t make it?” Kent is obviously annoyed and not backing down—probably wants to talk, probably won’t get his courage up to initiate the conversation again, and despite everything Adam’s almost glad for the excuse.

“I’m sorry, babe, it’s just, this PR event, it’s been scheduled for months,” and it’s true, but Adam knows even as he says it that this is the first Kent is hearing of it, “and I don’t think I can get out of it.”

Kent sounds resigned, but acknowledges that PR events are rarely optional—especially not for them, especially not right now. “I’m just having a bad day,” he says, which is almost enough to make Adam decide to ditch anyways, but just as he’s gearing up to say as much he continues, all Parse now, “Next time, huh? Try not to get too drunk, there’s practice tomorrow and if you think I’m letting you off easy just because they’re PR-mandated drinks you’re dead wrong.”

Adam pauses, considers running over to Kent’s apartment, sitting down and forcing him to talk or forcing him to listen or even just forcing him to eat something that isn’t dietitian-approved. “Yes, captain!” he says, because Adam is six foot four of solid muscle and straps knives to his feet for a living but he is, at heart, a coward.

The PR event is some fundraiser for Saint Jude’s and other children’s hospitals, which makes him feel a little better about the whole thing. He hangs out by the appetizer table and finds himself chatting with some super chill doctor guy, talking through the highlights of Bad Bob’s career and the possibility of ghosts.

“I’m Justin, man, Justin Oluransi,” he offers, two hours in, and Adam ignores his outstretched hand in favor of pulling him into a bear hug across the prawns.

“Adam Birkholtz,” he tells him, lit up from the inside. Talking to Justin is like drinking a hot cup of coffee after a chilly morning jog. “Bro, not to sound weird but...like, do you think maybe we were brothers in a past life?”

Justin laughs, but in a way that makes Adam think he probably agrees.

  


Adam decides to take Justin along for emotional support the next time he tries to show up at Kent’s like everything’s normal. They stumble in the door, and he just barely manages not to run Justin over when he suddenly stops halfway down the hallway.

“So this guy you said you were dating—it’s Kent Parson?” Justin’s trying not to stare at the row of trophies on Kent’s wall, probably, but if so he’s failing.

He can feel the blush pushing its way across his cheeks, even now, but tries for nonchalance anyways. “Dude, do you not watch ESPN?”

Justin shakes his head. “I was working evening shifts on an ER rotation in Boston up until a week ago, man, I barely had time to breath.” Adam accepts that. It’s not like everyone’s life revolves around the Aces—there was a time not so long ago when his definitely didn’t. “No offense, but uh, Kent Parson is not what I was picturing based on what you said.”

“He’s—he’s different from what you would expect. I mean, he could be the next Gretzky, and if you asked him he’d tell you he’s the first Kent Parson, but—he’s so good, man, he’d do anything for the team and-” Adam collapses onto the arm of the couch and grasps at the air, trying to find the words. Justin only signed up for the penny, but his heart's been itching from the moment he hit the ice and he gets the question too often to not have a whole pound's worth stored up.

“Look. He’s kind of...he’s kind of like Las Vegas. It’s glittering and out of your league, a rush and a beauty and a gamble, but if you know where to look…” he’s staking out uncharted territory between defensive and ridiculously infatuated without even a beer to blame it on, he knows, but since he’s started he can’t stop now. “If you know where to look, it’s also—kind. And hardworking. And trying to cover up where it’s hurting by distracting you with flashing neon lights. And totally in love with Britney Spears. And, yeah, sometimes it catches you off guard and sometimes things don’t go the way you planned, but that can be good, too? Sometimes...sometimes the surprise is pancakes, or a parade, or being part of someone’s 3am Elvis wedding, and that’s good. And even when the surprise is bad, it can feel kind of good that this big glitzy show is deciding to let you come backstage. That there’s so much chaos and they’re pulling it off anyway.” His eyes are shining with pride and fear, but the tremble in his voice is something far less kind. “I’d rather have the surprise than sit in the audience.”

Justin finally leaves the hallway to sling an arm around his shoulders. “Wow.”

He sucks in a breath. “Yeah.”

“So like...you wanna talk about this?”

“Maybe,” he says, and eyes Justin. “Maybe I should talk about it with him first, though.”

Justin nods but doesn’t say anything, which he’s grateful for. Adam disappears into the kitchen to hide his embarrassment in Kent’s collection of takeout menus, and of course it’s at that moment that Kent decides to show up and the whole night goes to hell in a handbasket very, very quickly.

Kent walks in on Justin sitting on the couch they picked out together at IKEA, wearing the glasses he forgot on Kent’s nightstand half a year ago and never brought home, clearly not doing a great job at making friends with Kit, and Adam can see in the way his hand hesitates on the door that he almost walks right back out again. He realizes with a sinking stomach that this could easily blow up in his face. Tonight is not the night to try and fix anything—his new goal is just to get through dinner.

Kent doesn’t so much as hug him goodbye, and he figures that things are even worse than he thought. He needs to do something, and soon, before Kent breaks up with him for real.

  


Kent has a weird spiritual connection with Swoops’ minivan. It’s like his zen or something. For such a supposedly awesome car it doesn’t even have the decency to be a cool old hippie van; it’s just a brown Ford from the 90s, somehow miraculously still running after two decades of soccer moms and college students forgetting to change the oil.

“You want to what?” Even through the phone, Adam can hear Swoops squinting at him.

“Borrow your van, man! I need to go on a Life Changing Trip In Swoops’ Minivan, and for that I need, y’know, your minivan.”

“...I’m not leaving you unsupervised with my van,” says Swoops, “which is why I’m coming with you.”

They don’t really plan anything; Adam throws some clothes in a gym bag and meets Swoops outside his apartment building 20 minutes after they hang up. He’s not sure that he really believes in the healing power of Swoops’ van or whatever, but he does know that he’s about to go stir-crazy sitting around in his apartment trying to figure out how to reply to Kent’s texts. The Aces have a bye week coming up, all skates optional and under the table, and he’s not sure if he can deal with the tension of radio silence without the excuse that Kent’s too busy anyways.

He realizes three miles down the road that he completely forgot to pack a change of pants, but refuses to let Swoops turn around. They swing into a Target and wind up losing almost an hour to the mall it’s in before he can finally convince Swoops to get back on the road. Swoops insists on going through the Starbucks drivethru on their way out of the parking lot, and he ignores the way his heart lurches a little as he orders an Americano.

It’s bizarre, going on a roadtrip with the person who is for all intents and purposes his maybe-soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend’s best friend, but Adam has to admit that there’s something strangely soothing about the way the engine rattles and the backseat smells like hard boiled eggs and cheetos. Swoops refuses to let him drive for more than half an hour at a time and threatens to ban Redbull from the van. They’re an hour into Utah before he realizes that he has no idea where they’re going.

Adam settles back, closes his eyes, and lets the sound of Bon Jovi soothe him to sleep. His fate is in Swoops’ hands now.

  


When he wakes up, the van is parked at a gas station in a town that Swoops tells him in a complete deadpan is called Beaver. He meanders into the gas station to buy some snacks and then comes back to find that Swoops has called dibs on driving again, and slides into shotgun. The map says that I-15 is basically a straight shot north to Salt Lake at this point, but Swoops turns at an intersection and takes them down what seems to be a generic side street.

“Scenic Byway through the national forest,” Swoops explains. His tone is completely dry but he’s laughing at him on the inside, Adam just knows it. The canyon they drive through is awesome enough to almost makes up for the way the van’s worn-out shocks jolt his recently healed leg when the pavement runs out.

They come out at an even smaller town and don’t slow down until they hit Capitol Reef National Park as the sun reaches an angle that makes looking in the rearview mirror impossible. Swoops flashes a national parks pass, and as twilight sets in they slowly wend their way through the red buttes and arches. Swoops groans and threatens that Adam will be doing all the driving tomorrow as they finally settle into their room for the night a couple towns past the park.

Adam hasn’t thought about anything more complicated than U2 versus Beyoncé since they left Las Vegas. It feels pretty good, right up until his back hits the mattress and the guilt sets back in.

  


Swoops shakes him awake before the hotel’s even thinking about putting out the continental breakfast the next morning, and Adam barely remembers oozing into the passenger seat before passing out again. He wakes back up just in time to bail out of the van and jog into a coffeeshop in Moab. They drive hard all day, crossing the Rockies and descending down into the Front Range—Swoops apparently trusts him enough to sleep while he drives now, which makes a difference, but Adam has to admit that his leg is starting to ache after spending two days cooped up in the car. By the time they make Rye that night, he’s feeling lonely and in pain, and only the thought that Kent might not pick up keeps him from calling.

Clambering around Bishop Castle the next morning, he can barely keep himself from snapping at Swoops in pretty unchill irritation, which only makes him feel even more miserable. Swoops takes them down more backways and county roads at first, but Adam takes the wheel in Limon and makes a beeline for 76. He makes up for the fact they have to leave the highway again by insisting on a long lunch in Sidney. It’s dark by the time they make Alliance and, too tired to bother with trying to figure out which of the hotels won’t give them bedbugs, they sleep in the van.

They watch the sun rise over Carhenge the next morning, and Swoops sighs in satisfaction.

“Worth it?” He asks.

“Dude, so totally worth it.” Adam agrees. And it is; Carhenge is weird, and strange, the sort of ugly that’s also a little bit beautiful. It’s not a destination so much as a distraction, a pitstop for drivers who need a break and something to look at that isn’t a white or yellow line. It looks ancient, and new, like art and like garbage and like something your uncle might do as a joke.

It’s worth making the trip for. Adam feels like he could stand here staring at it forever; it brings a sort of peace to his soul, almost as good as getting high was before that was a potential—unlikely, but potential—career-killer. He thinks he might know what he needs to do now, and when he tells Swoops as much he doesn’t even laugh at him.

They spend most of the fourth day lounging around Steamboat, soaking in the hot springs until the heat finally soothes the ache out of Adam’s leg, and have to haul ass back to Vegas as a result. Swoops complains bitterly about highways and interstates but seems pretty happy about the idea of sleeping in his own bed before he has to get back to practice. Adam would be perfectly content with never going anywhere in Swoops’ van ever again, but thanks him for doing him the solid of the road trip anyways when he drops him off.

  


His second full practice back, Adam looks up in the middle of changing, realizes Kent is gone _again_ , and sprints out of the door still trying to pull his shirt over his head. He catches up just as Kent’s about to reach for his car door, and panics, grabbing the first thing he can. He’s thinking about the way Kent carefully engineers team dynamics, the way he holds on to his ambitions, the way he curls around his vulnerabilities, the crooked tilt to his smile when he can’t hold back his affection, and maybe that’s why what comes out isn’t the speech he’d planned at all.

“I love you, man,” he tells Kent’s gym bag, and Kent pulls away like Adam’s grip on the strap across his shoulder is the only thing keeping him from leaving orbit. “Let me drive you home?” He’s begging, now, but he doesn’t care—he has to try. He thanks his lucky stars when Kent nods abruptly and tosses him his keys. Neither of them says a single word the entire drive, or as they walk into his building and get into the elevator. Kent makes a point of not inviting Adam inside, so he hovers just inside the open doorway for a full minute before making up his mind and kicking it shut.

He dives right in with the hard part, admitting that he knows Kent has some kind of history that makes all of this hard to deal with. From there it’s easy to keep going, pleading with Kent to stay with him even though everything’s gone wrong and he’s been outed to the world and Adam couldn’t even give him a shoulder to lean on. Kent’s shouting about leaving him but he stumbles on; the feelings that have been building in his throat come tumbling out and it’s a relief to finally let them go. He isn’t even really sure what he says, just that by the time Kent tells him to shut up he’s crying.

The words—apologies—that come pouring out of Kent’s mouth are shocking in their brutal honesty and self-doubt, and Adam realizes that Kent, cool, smooth Parse, might be just as lost here as he is.

He reaches for Kent, slowly, giving him time to pull away if he wants to.

“It’s not your fault,” he mutters into Kent’s hair when he sags into Adam’s arms. “Don’t blame yourself, babe, it takes two to tango, oh god you’re not leaving me. I love you, I love you.” He isn’t sure what to say, isn’t sure if Kent can even hear him through the snot and tears choking his throat, but really at this point that isn’t what matters. Kent guides them to the couch and puts something on—some dry as dirt documentary, it sounds like—and lets Adam cry himself out into his chest. Once the tears are gone, he gives himself a minute to try and get himself together, but the embarrassment that’s tugging at his feet is in a losing battle against his boyfriend’s washboard abs and the soft dusting of hair trailing down them.

Kent tolerates Adam’s increasingly daring wandering fingers at first, but when he starts to shift away Adam can’t keep himself from grinning, or sneaking a bold palm to slide under his shirt and up past his ribcage. He yanks Adam’s face up and kisses him, not soft, not gentle, all fire. Adam’s half-expecting it when he pushes him off of the couch, and can’t help but marvel up at him as he invites him to the bedroom, trying so hard to flirt. The hickey isn’t his fault, not really—it would’ve been rude to ignore such a blatant invitation. Kent topples both of them to floor again, wriggling ungracefully, Kit scolding them as she flees the couch, and he can’t help but laugh in sheer delight.

Adam has to admit that these are some of his favorite moments, when Kent finally stops pushing and just lets himself _be_. Their next kiss is almost chaste, but Kent’s hand, determinedly pushing its way under the band of his sweatpants to tug at Adam’s cock, definitely isn’t. Adam lets him go on for a minute before firmly tugging his hand out of his sweatpants and pinning it above Kent’s head, pushing up his shirt along the way.

“Adam.” Kent’s tone is amused instead of annoyed, so he contentedly buries his face in Kent’s chest and leaves a row of gentle bite marks connecting his nipples, gently rocking his leg between Kent’s thighs. Kent reaches his free hand down and struggles with his fly, fighting to get out of his jeans.

Finally, reluctantly, Adam releases his hand and helps him pull his jeans and boxers off, shoving his own sweatpants off and shrugging out of his shirt at the same time. Kent goes to try and pull his shirt off but Adam’s on top of him before he can quite manage it, filled with awe at the way Kent allows him to do this. He tugs Kent’s shirt off and Kent, mischief in his eyes, wraps an arm around his back and a leg around his thigh, arching himself off the floor so almost his full weight is hanging off of Adam and their bodies are pressed together like puzzle pieces. Kent rubs himself slowly against Adam’s body, dragging his tongue wickedly against his jaw, brow furrowed in concentration and lightly panting with effort.

Adam shakes his head and gently tries to pry Kent’s arm loose. “Quit that.”

Kent frowns, letting go but not quite managing to keep the hurt from flashing in his eyes.

“I love the friction, babe, don’t get me wrong,” he explains, gently tracing a star on Kent’s hip, feathery touches that he knows will drive him crazy, “but I like it even better when you smile.” To illustrate his point, he bends his head down and blows a raspberry against the slowly blooming hickey he’d left earlier.

Kent laughs, and squirms, and Adam gasps when a bent thigh skitters across his dick. He can’t hold back, kisses Kent like he’s never heard of air, grabs at his ass like it’s their first time. They separate, panting, and he nips lightly along Kent’s jawline and down across his shoulder, letting himself rub against Kent like a horny teenager as Kent tugs at his hair and traces the dimples in Adam’s back.

“Gorgeous,” he mutters, taking a quick detour to kiss the edge of Kent’s grin before resuming his meandering journey toward Kent’s heart. He knows without looking the kind of face Kent’s making, the annoyed twist to his smile, and is prepared when Kent gooses him in retaliation. Unlike Adam, he doesn’t like to talk in bed, never has, but that doesn’t mean he stops communicating.

Kent, clearly done waiting, makes an impatient noise and bites at Adam’s neck. He pulls away from his collarbone, satisfied that there will be a hickey there tomorrow, and props himself on one elbow. Gathering them both up in his other hand, he strokes slowly in counterpoint to the rocking of his hips, watching the way Kent’s face shatters with joy and pleasure. Kent has a death grip on his shoulders, pushing himself frantically into Adam’s hand. He can’t help but kiss him, and Kent comes with a cry, curling his arms around Adam as if he might never let go and kicking a heel against his calf in a way that’s certain to leave a bruise; Adam follows a moment later, lying on top of Kent and pushing his hair gently off his forehead until he shoves him off with a sigh.

Kent passes out within minutes of coming, one of his feet still tangled in his jeans. Adam scrounges up a towel for clean up and then lays back down next to him, watching the flickering TV and trying to work out what happened and, more importantly, how they can make sure it never happens again. Make-up sex only feels like a miracle cure, he knows.

He falls asleep without any real solutions, happy and optimistic anyways. They’ll figure it out; they always do.

  


Kent tells him he loves him for the first time over the phone, and even though he chirps him endlessly it makes him feel like he can fly.

“Bro,” he sighs at Justin, “he loves me.”

“Yeah bro,” says Justin affectionately, “he sure does.”

Kent holds more NHL records than any player his age since Crosby and the media have dubbed the league’s new anti-discrimination policies the “Birkholtz Rule”, but it’s nice, for once, to think something so important might come as naturally and inevitably as an avalanche. It’s like starting to go out all over again: normal couple things like holding hands and coffee breath kisses make him feel like there should be cellies for relationship milestones. For a while he spends so much time at Kent’s apartment that his cactus almost dies from remorseful overwatering when they finally decide to end a date at his place instead.

“Saying you’re in love doesn’t ever actually fix shit, you know,” Kent’s eyes, watching each expression flitting across Adam’s face, stand in jarring contrast to his harsh words.

Adam’s a little too focused on the places Kent’s reaching inside him to figure out how to reply, but afterwards, stretched across the cool sheets with his head pillowed on Kent’s chest listening to him snore, he considers whether, just this one time, Kent might be wrong.

  


Adam’s mom keeps asking him when they’re going to get married, but he doesn’t think they’re going to be ready for that anytime soon. Heck, Kent isn’t always comfortable with the fact that they’re halfway to living with each other, and although they’ve been working on it it’s not like their communication issues magically disappeared overnight. But it does bring up some important questions…

“So like. Not that I’m asking you to marry me. But if I was...would I need to ask the minivan’s permission?”

“What? That’s ridiculous. It’s a van.”

“Dude.”

“...yeah, you’d need to ask the van.”

Yeah, if the day ever comes Adam’s totally going to make a fool of himself asking an inanimate object permission to propose to his boyfriend. Swoops will probably take pictures, and if he doesn’t Justin definitely will. It’s all good, though—Kent has called the shots in their relationship since day one, and he’s basically okay with that, even when it means his idiocy winds up being immortalized on the internet.

Las Vegas Pride asks them to be Grand Marshals, together. Kent, amazingly, agrees even before Adam does. He laughs until he cries when he sees Kent’s reply and learns that his acceptance was contingent on them agreeing to include Swoops’ van.

He still hasn’t told him about his Life Changing Road Trip, but hey, they’ve got nothing but time.

**Author's Note:**

> Vanilla: it's the finest of the flavors.
> 
> This fic is indebted to flannelgiraffe, who asked for roadtrip fic, and thesentimentalist/sewingfrommagic, who encouraged me to follow through on the E rating/sex scene.
> 
> I realize that Ransom having already graduated from medical school and completed his residency is completely unrealistic, and have elected to ignore this fact in favor of giving Holster some emotional support from his best bro (and also giving poor Kent someone to be jealous about). If it makes you feel better maybe he’s set up some kind of deal to finish out his residency with the Aces’ medical team.
> 
> This series now has a [playlist](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLouPzsP_ki7_A8AG8TYvC-iaw8F2xxQMr).
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://missionlameturtle.tumblr.com/) and [dreamwidth](https://thisaintbc.dreamwidth.org/).


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